


Your Mouth is a Melody

by galentines



Category: The Civil Wars (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 03:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12696615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galentines/pseuds/galentines
Summary: You're my favorite song, always on the tip of my tongue...Five times Joy and John Paul kissed.





	Your Mouth is a Melody

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a thing I wrote. I think I like it. Would be great to have a real fandom to share it with! Hope the few of you out there enjoy. All lyrics belong, of course, to The Civil Wars.
> 
> Many thanks to bookwormm03 for the beta <3

**Nashville, Summer 2008;** _oh dear, never saw you coming..._ **  
**

It’s a few months before one of them budges. He can't have imagined it; how could his mind have crafted a voice that fit his like a glove? She had to have felt it, too. It was different, from any person he had ever written with. Sung with. _Existed_ with. And after playing a game of email back-and-forth for months, he's finally hitting the road to Nashville again.

Her house is sweet and small and decorated like she watches too much HDTV. He briefly meets her husband, young and just as fresh-faced as she is. He works in the industry, somewhere, he remembers. Then Joy ushers him to their music room, a piano at the ready and a nervous smile on her face.

It’s a little weird at first. Their voices do mesh, just like before, causing all the little hairs on the back of his neck to lift. But before, at that co-write, they were meant to write for someone else. This is just two strangers in a room, no real goal in mind, just to explore something that feels like it could be bigger than them.

After ten minutes, he proposes a change of scenery, a little more getting-to-know-you talk.

They end up on her porch in the sunny Tennessee summer. She brings out glasses of lemonade and curls her legs under her on the bench swing. He starts messing around on his guitar before looking up at her through his hair.

“So.” A pause, a few more notes. “I did some internet searching.”

“Sneaky. Didn’t expect so much of the Lord?” she counters, a smile on her face.

“Didn’t expect the bottle blonde.”

She laughs, as melodic and bright as her voice. Her shoulders shrug and she takes a long sip from her glass.

“I told you before! I was a teenager, I had no idea what I wanted to do, besides sing. I grew up in church! I mean come on, what phases have you gone through? Tried to be the next Ronnie Dio?”

He starts picking out the opening notes of “Rainbow in the Dark”, and she just keeps giggling. She does that a lot; it’s like the sun shines right out of her voice, blinding him every time.

“Darlin’, I was gonna be a bonafide rock star, had the album ever come out.”

“I’m sure. So it’s just gone? Into the ether?”

“I have it. Can release it anytime I want. Just gotta give all the money over, is all.”

“Ah.”

The silence is strangely comfortable, and he starts messing with some chords again. Pretty soon her hum reaches his ears, a melody layered over his notes. It’s pretty, and kind of sad. Nostalgic; almost of another time.

An hour or two later, they have the makings of the world’s most depressing love song. Or anti-love song, really. _Don’t you let me lie here, and die here_. But she sure did smile a lot while they were writing it.

They end with plans to hit a recording studio, maybe try to shop the song around. “Sooner, this time,” he adds, putting his hand out for a shake. She rolls her eyes and pulls him in for a full hug. She smells like daisies and fresh air.

“I want to hear that album,” she tells him. “You know all my secrets now, so I get to hear yours.”

“Deal.”

They listen to it in the studio, a month after he posts it online to download. She laughs a little, listens intently, and keeps lightly pushing his arm when she hears moments she likes. When it ends, she looks at him like he just gave her a great gift.

“Now we’re even.”

She kisses him on the cheek before moving on to their set up. It hits near the corner of his mouth.

He feels her lips there for the rest of the day.  
  
  


**Tour, Fall 2010;** _you're a red string tied to my finger, a little love letter I carry with me..._

They had a good show; they were all good these days. He spends his time on stage trying to make the audience sad but make Joy smile, and every week more and more people are mouthing along the words. They don’t even have a real goddamn album out yet, but here they were.

They always go out after, mingling with friends and fans and strangers. Joy carries around a wine glass like it was made to fit in her hand, while he tries whatever local brew is recommended to him. They laugh a lot, bump into each other endlessly, sometimes dance if she can convince him. The walk back to the van is always hazy from the booze and the high of the show. The hands brush against each other but never clasp.

Tonight is different, though. Joy’s a few feet behind him and the boys, and he can hear her tone change as she talks quietly into her phone. Joy’s emotional enough as is; pour some red wine into the mix, and he knows the crash can come quick if the opportunity presents itself.

He slows, trying to fall back into step with her as she jams her phone back in her clutch. She mumbles something about Nate, how he can’t meet them at their next stop as they planned, but doesn’t elaborate. Her eyes are glassy and her arms wrap around herself; he doesn’t press the issue.

They all pile back into the van for the night, silently picking rows to spread out in and getting out pillows. It’s gonna be an overnight drive and John Paul knows his driving shift starts at the crack of down; he’s already tired just thinking about it.

He crawls into the far back, pulling out a book from his bag, when Joy collapses next to him in a heap. She definitely still doesn’t want to talk, but he can see it in her face. The same thing he feels when he thinks about his family. His sons, his baby daughter. Home.

She puts earbuds in, head swaying along as her eyelids grow heavy. The van’s dead quiet; other than their sound guy driving, everyone else is asleep in the rows ahead of them. The merch guy snores loudly. They’re driving through bumfuck America, and even though he can’t spot cows in the moonlight, he still has that empty feeling of cruising through a lot of nothing. 

He catches her gaze and she smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She pops out an earbud and motions to him, asking if he wants to listen. He draws close, close enough to hear the soft hum of the music. When he reaches, his hand goes farther, touches her cheek. Her eyes fall shut.

“You sure you’re okay?”

It’s so quiet that even his whisper feels like a holler, but no one ahead of them stirs.

She just shrugs, eyes now on her lap, avoiding his stare. But his hand drifts to her chin, lifting until she’s finally looking right at him. Her big brown eyes are questioning and a little sad, with something else stirring behind them.

It starts slowly, but then happens all at once.

He doesn’t know who leans in first, but it’s exploratory, testing. Chaste until it’s not; she sighs and it unleashes something in the back of his chest. Her hands find his hair and pull him in, mouths parting as he tastes her for the first time.

And that’s how he finds himself, clutching his duet partner, making out in the backseat of a van full of dudes, like some horny teenager on a road trip.

His head feels light, dizzy even. She’s so, so goddamn tiny in his arms, yet she presses back with strength. Every little noise she makes causes his heart to jump in his chest, and he feels more at home in her grasp than he has in months.

How did it take them this long to get here?

Eventually their lips slow, their limbs stretch out. She smiles a genuine smile.

If he wasn’t a goner before, he’s completely out of luck now.

Somehow they arrange themselves comfortably into the row, pressing against one another for comfort, and sleep.

She doesn't stir when his driving shift comes.  
  
  
  
**Paris, Spring 2011;** _you own me, with whispers like poetry..._ **  
**

They’ve been touring so intensely, now, but the magnitude of what they’re doing doesn’t really hit him until the Pont des Arts. He imagined some typical busking situation, with some passerby and a few people who follow them on twitter coming to support them. But nope. They have a large, happy crowd from all over Europe, hanging onto their every word.

Nate’s smiling behind the camera, Joy’s grinning next to him, people that barely speak English are singing along with his southern vowels.

The goddamn Eiffel Tower is behind them. Every time he glances over his shoulder he sees it, glittering above the rest of the city. It makes him feel small, a little displaced.

But then the wind picks up a curl in Joy’s hair and he’s grounded again.

Joy and Nate leave a lock behind on the bridge. He pretends not to pay attention.

They’re here for a vacation, but also to write. Inspiration, Joy had said. At times it feels a little like playing third wheel. Joy and Nate have done this, they’ve seen this city, they already know what it’s like to walk along the Seine and eat pastries in corner cafes and stroll down the Champs-Élysées. Joy can order dinner for all of them in passable French.

He’s just trying to keep up.

They drink wine with Tec and Allister and other friends, mess around on the guitar and write a song in French. He has no idea what he’s harmonizing to, but it sounds beautiful coming out of Joy’s mouth.

Everyone goes to bed and he sits upright in his tiny bedroom, staring out the window, wondering when the world got so big. How a simple boy from Loretto can have a captive audience across the world.

A text from Joy asks him to meet her outside.

She takes him on a short night stroll, just to breathe, she says. “There hasn’t been much relaxing, has there?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I absolutely love photoshoots.”

She winces.

“Thanks for being a good sport. They’ll look good, though, yeah?”

He shrugs; all he did was try to stare in the distance. Stare at the camera. Not stare at her.

Their shoulders touch comfortably as they navigate the cobblestone. He grabs her elbow when she stumbles and she stays, hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

“It’s a lot, here.” He doesn’t know how to articulate it any better.

She nods like she knows what he means. She probably does; she always knows. She’s always one step ahead.

They’re quiet as they round the block back to their flat. He reaches for the key in his pocket, but her arms wrap around his waist, her cheek against his chest. He hopes his returning hold around her isn’t too tight.

At some point she seems satisfied, getting out her own key to open the door. He’s right behind her as she pushes it open, but suddenly she turns, too close.

She leans up and presses her lips to his. Quick, but firm. She’s smiling when she pulls away, and lifts a finger to her mouth, motioning him to keep quiet.

He sits up all night, strumming his guitar, trying to match a melody to what he’s feeling. It’s impossible.  
  
  
  


**Nashville, Winter 2012;** _you're sunlight, smoke rings and cigarettes..._ **  
**

He hasn’t seen her since before the holidays; the longest he’s been without her smile in over a year. She’s glowing even brighter still, her bump now cresting above her waistband.

And, somehow, they’re headlining the Ryman. Joy has made a big moment of crossing it off the physical bucket list with a tear in her eye and he’d looked away as he felt his own eyes start to itch. A year ago they were playing cafes and bars, and now? Taylor fucking Swift was their _guest_.

He felt almost dizzy during soundcheck, looking out at the empty theater that would soon be full to the brim. Joy was all that anchored him; her hand on his arm in between songs, the sway of her hips in time with his strumming, the twinkle in her eye as their voices wrapped around each other.

He could never stumble with her leading him.

The show was a blur; he toasted the audience an embarrassing amount of times, but he had no idea what else to do, short of staring at Joy and the look of wonder and gratitude on her face. She tells the audience that she should have worn waterproof mascara; he agrees.

The damn crowd even stays with them after Taylor leaves the stage, the lingering notes of their lullaby still hanging in the air as her yellow dress disappears into the wings. They sing along to the songs, or fall deathly quiet to soak up every last note. They give them a standing ovation before the set is even half over, raising to their feet as the end of Barton Hollow rings up to to the rafters.

It isn’t their first sold-out crowd, or first good show, or first time a famous friend has lended themselves over. But it’s the first time here, the pride of Nashville, full of friends and family, singing next to the only person he ever wants to make music with for the rest of his life.

It’s also not the first time he’s sung “I don’t love you but I always will” with conviction, straight into Joy’s eyes, but he feels it even more tonight. The gratitude to her, for sharing this journey with him, for being his partner and his friend and his…

Whatever else they are.

He can tell by her look that she feels it, too.

As they bow and lift their cups just one more time, Joy grabs his hand in the wings. She’s shaking, brimming with emotion, a few tears already spilling over.

“John Paul,” she whispers, and all he can do is kiss her. Hard, and probably a little sloppy, but he just feels everything and it’s all in his chest and he’s aching to get it out, to pull her in, to share it with her. She goes without question, fingers tangling in his ever-unruly hair that she forever loves to mess with.

His hand slides down her waist and feels the bump, and in surprise he jumps back. Her eyebrows knit together in concern, but the lights are coming back up for the encore.

It’s time to sing “Billie Jean” with one of his favorite people in the world, for the thousandth time, and he knows it’ll be even better than the last.  
  
  
  


**London, Fall 2012;** _oh my, look what you have done..._

On paper, the years don’t seem like much. But somehow, it feels like a long time coming. The disagreements, the strain, the long hours at the studio where they could barely talk to one another. Her need to tinker against his need to let it go. Then again, maybe he’s just the asshole that hasn’t unpacked his bags since they got off the plane in England.

She doesn’t look at him as they get ready for the show, and even after weeks - months, really - of tension, it feels different. She’s always the one trying. She’s always been there, eyes searching for his, hands reaching out while he stays an inch out of grasp. It would have been so easy to fall back, to touch her fingertips and try to keep pretending that this could work.

But it would just be the latest band-aid on the crack. And anyway, he thinks. Seems she’s finally stopped forcing it.

He hadn’t realized how that would feel.

He hasn’t said more than a few broken sentences to her since they decided to cancel the tour, back in Scotland. It isn’t working. He can’t live on a bus, watching her happy little family carry on. He can’t put his heart into the album, he couldn’t keep talking the songs to death, he wouldn’t carry on this way. And she won’t admit it - not to his face, at least - but he can see the toll it’s taking on her, too.

They always said, if the connection faltered, they’d rethink things. He just truly didn’t think it would come so soon. But here they are, the shit explanation cued up on Nate’s phone. All he has to do is hit “post.”

Internal discord. Differences of ambition. Sure, why not call it that?

Waiting in the wings is excruciating. During the day, it’s easy to stay apart, and Nate has taken on the role of mediator backstage. But these moments, the waiting on the precipice, putting on their faces and building up their walls for another night… he can’t wait to never feel this way again.

And then he notices it, so lightly. Her fingertips on his hand, grasping for something, anything. The shake in her limbs as she latches onto his pinky finger, limp in her hold. His eyes clamp shut and he rests his forehead on the nearest wall, and they breathe.

The crowd could be having a riot and he wouldn’t hear it; not over the sound of her unsteady breaths behind him. In time with his own, of course. He almost lets out a bitter laugh; even their misery harmonizes with ease.

If he even looks at her, he’s going to do something he regrets.

He does it anyway.

He tries to ignore the wetness under his thumb pads as he frames her face, her mouth the only anchor keeping him up. Her hands are trying to bunch in his jacket but can’t; they slip as he parts her lips.

Once they step back, he knows that’s it. They’ll go out on stage, they’ll smile. They’ll sing sad songs about love and loss. The crowd will cheer; they always do. Her voice will carry to the ceiling, his will blend in seamlessly.

And then he’ll get on a plane and, probably, never look back.

She knows, her hold on his waist finally gaining strength as she kisses back. Even with his eyes closed, he can tell the house lights have gone down. Their foreheads touch as they wait. Her big brown eyes find his, and he almost…

But it’s time.

They sing “Tip of My Tongue” and the usual setlist that follows. She dances, he strums out the chords. They sing and speak to the audience and go through the motions.

They don’t look at each other once.

After the bows, he lets her disappear into the dressing room. He knows Nate will take care of her. It’s time to go gather his things.


End file.
